Chun the Unavoidable
04-08-2001, 09:53
Though the incidents of this tale actually occurred over thirty years ago, I will endeavour to tell of them in the present tense, and keep from intruding those unimportant comments and opinions that the elapsed decades have enabled me to form.
"It's cold tonight, eh Spadge?"
I squatted to stroke the old Alsation's head as he thumped his tail softly in return greeting against the raised wooden floor of his kennel. "Where's Cadge, dog? 'Should be here keeping you warm."
At the sound of the tomcat's name, the guard-dog whined and thumped his tail somewhat harder. Giving his grey muzzle a final, conciliatory scratch, I said, "Don't worry, old sod. He'll be out after a rat or two for supper." I stood and continued on into the depot's yard.
It was cold tonight. Freezing, in fact. I could feel it biting bone-deep at my shoulders and elbows through the quilting of my jacket, numbing knees and thighs through my regulation-green trousers and thermal under-leggings, toes through black leather shoes —also regulation— and itchy thermal stockings. And it was foggy, too — I couldn't see clearly beyond three yards, and nothing but a cocooning wall of grey, dimly glowing with moisture-reflected sodium-orange from the yard's lights, was visible beyond four.
As I walked my footsteps click-clacked loudly across the yard's glistening cobbles; even my breathing seemed to have increased in volume to resemble that of a labouring marathon runner. The phenomena further exhibited itself by sudden, startling curses in Hindi and a metallic clatter that seemed to emanate simultaneously from all directions, though I knew for a fact that it came from the depot yet thirty yards away where Raj, or the Taj Mahal as he was often nicknamed, was throwing tools at his apprentices again.
Navigating through the fog with the aid of the tramlines criss-crossing the yard (the Number 894 Edgware Road lines, the Channel Complex Express link, the Southbank link, the King Harold Railway Station link, the Number 92 and 93 Ham-er lines...), I made my way to the wicket built into the depot's huge main doors, pushed it open, and stepped into the glare of the depot's fluorescent lighting.
"Shut that bloody door, Captain! Brass monkeys' testicles will freeze tonight!"
"All right, Raj, give me a chance!" I shouted, and, smiling, quickly did as I was told. I clocked on, and, turning to the rank of cream and green-coloured trams to find out which one Raj was working on, was dismayed to discover it to be my own Number 53 Shoreditch to Cheshunt. It was on a standby line, rickety stepladders positioned alongside it, and, judging by the the number of open pantograph cowlings, the festoons of cable trailing to the ground and away to power points or compressors, and the clattering of spanners and bleeping of test instruments, it was not going to be fit to drive tonight.
I walked over to the foot of the stepladders and shouted, somewhat peevishly I suppose, "What the bloody hell is wrong with it now, Raj?"
Invisible on the tram's roof, Raj shouted back in a heavily accented voice (an indication of his high emotion — usually his spoken English was better than my own), "Is you're bloody mate on day-shift, Captain! Is pushing Number 53 too far! I keep telling, but he don't listen! Coils old, I say. Should not be stressed, I say. But he don't bloody listen! Now whole buggering thing's burnt out."
There came a sudden clang! from above, and Raj shouted out, "Secondary! I said disconnect secondary! And here's you on the God-buggered primary!”
A voice, low and sheepish —young Albert's, I think— replied, "But you're not supposed to disconnect the secondary when the primary's still live, so I —"
A scream of frustration, then, "Look above you, you little British little ****ty! Is that trolley pushing its jolly little terminals up at a happy little catenary? Is it? No? Well, then the primary is bloody dead! The bloody ****ty little secondary can be bloody disconnected! Disconnect it! Disconnect it! You little British... Beraghh!"
Another clang!, and an adjustable spanner bounced from the tram's roof and fell to the ground, mere feet from me. I hastily retreated. The wrath of the Taj Mahal is well avoided. Pity poor Albert.
End of Part One (because of apparant text-length restrictions in this forum).
"It's cold tonight, eh Spadge?"
I squatted to stroke the old Alsation's head as he thumped his tail softly in return greeting against the raised wooden floor of his kennel. "Where's Cadge, dog? 'Should be here keeping you warm."
At the sound of the tomcat's name, the guard-dog whined and thumped his tail somewhat harder. Giving his grey muzzle a final, conciliatory scratch, I said, "Don't worry, old sod. He'll be out after a rat or two for supper." I stood and continued on into the depot's yard.
It was cold tonight. Freezing, in fact. I could feel it biting bone-deep at my shoulders and elbows through the quilting of my jacket, numbing knees and thighs through my regulation-green trousers and thermal under-leggings, toes through black leather shoes —also regulation— and itchy thermal stockings. And it was foggy, too — I couldn't see clearly beyond three yards, and nothing but a cocooning wall of grey, dimly glowing with moisture-reflected sodium-orange from the yard's lights, was visible beyond four.
As I walked my footsteps click-clacked loudly across the yard's glistening cobbles; even my breathing seemed to have increased in volume to resemble that of a labouring marathon runner. The phenomena further exhibited itself by sudden, startling curses in Hindi and a metallic clatter that seemed to emanate simultaneously from all directions, though I knew for a fact that it came from the depot yet thirty yards away where Raj, or the Taj Mahal as he was often nicknamed, was throwing tools at his apprentices again.
Navigating through the fog with the aid of the tramlines criss-crossing the yard (the Number 894 Edgware Road lines, the Channel Complex Express link, the Southbank link, the King Harold Railway Station link, the Number 92 and 93 Ham-er lines...), I made my way to the wicket built into the depot's huge main doors, pushed it open, and stepped into the glare of the depot's fluorescent lighting.
"Shut that bloody door, Captain! Brass monkeys' testicles will freeze tonight!"
"All right, Raj, give me a chance!" I shouted, and, smiling, quickly did as I was told. I clocked on, and, turning to the rank of cream and green-coloured trams to find out which one Raj was working on, was dismayed to discover it to be my own Number 53 Shoreditch to Cheshunt. It was on a standby line, rickety stepladders positioned alongside it, and, judging by the the number of open pantograph cowlings, the festoons of cable trailing to the ground and away to power points or compressors, and the clattering of spanners and bleeping of test instruments, it was not going to be fit to drive tonight.
I walked over to the foot of the stepladders and shouted, somewhat peevishly I suppose, "What the bloody hell is wrong with it now, Raj?"
Invisible on the tram's roof, Raj shouted back in a heavily accented voice (an indication of his high emotion — usually his spoken English was better than my own), "Is you're bloody mate on day-shift, Captain! Is pushing Number 53 too far! I keep telling, but he don't listen! Coils old, I say. Should not be stressed, I say. But he don't bloody listen! Now whole buggering thing's burnt out."
There came a sudden clang! from above, and Raj shouted out, "Secondary! I said disconnect secondary! And here's you on the God-buggered primary!”
A voice, low and sheepish —young Albert's, I think— replied, "But you're not supposed to disconnect the secondary when the primary's still live, so I —"
A scream of frustration, then, "Look above you, you little British little ****ty! Is that trolley pushing its jolly little terminals up at a happy little catenary? Is it? No? Well, then the primary is bloody dead! The bloody ****ty little secondary can be bloody disconnected! Disconnect it! Disconnect it! You little British... Beraghh!"
Another clang!, and an adjustable spanner bounced from the tram's roof and fell to the ground, mere feet from me. I hastily retreated. The wrath of the Taj Mahal is well avoided. Pity poor Albert.
End of Part One (because of apparant text-length restrictions in this forum).